


Help, My Trainer's Hot

by petershorcrux



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Gift Fic, Gyms, M/M, PersonalTrainer!Jackson, Pre-Relationship, Yoga, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23562346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petershorcrux/pseuds/petershorcrux
Summary: It wasn’t the beginning of the year—Stiles had made sure to not schedule this at the start of the new year—so he’s doing this is April, which is a time he deems safe to do this. Not on the first because then he would be able to laugh at himself after this—inevitable hell of a workout—clap himself on the back, say good one, and never come back after this one attempt. There had even been the possibility of him not coming at all.But look at him—here.
Relationships: Stiles Stilinski & Jackson Whittemore, Stiles Stilinski/Jackson Whittemore
Comments: 5
Kudos: 95





	Help, My Trainer's Hot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eddiesdiaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddiesdiaz/gifts).



> a late bday giftfic for cailee. may continue it may just...let it be.
> 
> bc im not sure if i'm gonna be continuing it, the title is a working one until i think of smth better lol

It’s a place that Stiles never thought he would actually be. It’s a place that Stiles never thought that he would be paying a membership fee for, either. But here he was, standing outside of a gym. It’s not that he’s never worked out before—had to in high school because of lacrosse—but he’s never paid a fee—or hired someone to train him. Never thought he would, either.

Maybe something that made it worse was the fact that he was also paying for a personal trainer. One, Jackson Whittemore—Stiles didn’t know him but he could already tell he was going to hate him—only because he was going make him work out. Which, yeah, okay, Stiles gets that he’s only going to be making him work out because that’s what Stiles paid him to do. But just let him complain, okay?

It wasn’t the beginning of the year—Stiles had made sure to not schedule this at the start of the new year—so he’s doing this is April, which is a time he deems safe to do this. Not on the first because then he would be able to laugh at himself after this—inevitable hell of a workout—clap himself on the back, say good one, and never come back after this one attempt. There had even been the possibility of him not coming at all. 

But look at him—here. 

He’s committed to this, dammit. He’s put time into thinking about this and he was going to do it. As far as sarcasm would get him on the field, being able to actually chase down a suspect if they tried to make a run for it would probably help a little bit too. Then the little bit of close combat training could be put to slightly better use.

Adjusting the duffle bag on his shoulder, Stiles pushes into the gym; where he had been standing in front of for maybe too long. The receptionists have been staring at him like they’re ready to call the cops on him—which would be hilarious. Or ignore him if he chickens out and makes a sharp left back to his Jeep. He wonders how many people do that—bail at the last second. He could still bail.

When he crosses the threshold the whole thing feels a lot more real. It’s a little horrifying if only for the fact that he’s not too knowledge about this kind of life. The gym life. The “Do you even lift, bro?” life; which he can feel some people asking him in their minds as he walks his scrawny ass towards the reception desk.

The answer to their question is ‘no’.

Stiles coughs quietly as he steps up to the counter, the receptionists turn away from their conversation and smile at him. “I’m, uh, I have an appointment.” There’s a lack of enthusiasm in his words and the receptionists almost seem like they want to give him a pitying look but know better.

“Okay,” one of them says, a blonde girl said sweetly, though almost predatorily, “who are you with today?” She asks, moving the mouse over its pad. He takes a second to look at her name tag, Erica. His eyes also get a little caught in her chest for a moment.

“Uh, Jackson,” Stiles says back with a mumble after staring too long and seeing her smile at him brightly—still with a little bit of predatory hunger in her eyes. Fuck.

“Mmhm,” she hums slowly and clicks around her computer for a moment. There’s a pause after she finds his file and then there’s a moment of her staring at the name on the screen. She glances over at him, some distress in her eyes. She’s going to try to pronounce his name. You don’t have to, he thinks at her mentally. But then she opens her mouth to try and he cuts her off at the first syllable, already coming out wrong.

“Stiles.”

She glances over at him, seemingly relieved at the easier name than he filled out the form with. He did it because it made it easier to pretend that he was being forced to do this by someone else considering he never went by that name except for when legally required. And even then he tried to avoid it if he could. And also if someone had hypothetically forced him to do it he would he wouldn’t have to feel as bad about not actually following through.

“Stiles, okay,” she—Erica—Stiles is reminded she moves to toss her hair over her shoulder and the light catches her plastic badge—says before rising a little. “You’re going to round that corridor down, take a left and then at the end of the hall you’ll find the locker room. I’ll page Jackson and have him meet you there.” Erica seems to have recovered from her slight confidence slip as she flashes him another smile—half sweet and half predatory.

Stiles nods quickly before following her directions. He thinks he hears her whisper ‘good luck’ as he makes his way down he corridor, following her directions. He’ll probably need it.

It’s a nice gym; it’s one of the few very nice things in Beacon Hills. Not that Beacon Hills is a bad place per se, you just wouldn’t find people that wanted to live lavish living in Beacon Hills. So, if anything, the gym may be a desperate attempt by the mayor to lure more people into the sleepy town. There have always been strange happenings, so most sane people tend to avoid living here if they can. But the strange happenings do tend to attract a lot of weirdos. Who knows, maybe this ploy by the mayor will work out and Beacon Hills will bring in more affluent people. The property here is cheap, after all.

Stiles’s phone dings as he makes his way into the locker and tosses his bag on the bench between the two long rows of lockers. No one’s in the locker room. There hadn’t been that many people in the main area either so Stiles wasn’t surprised. It’s actually good that people aren’t here, gives him time to breathe and collect his thoughts a little. He pulls out his phone to see a message from Scott, How’s it going?

Nothing’s going just yet, Stiles texts back before quickly undressing and starting to put on his workout clothes—which he’s bought specifically for this day. He could still fit into his old high school stuff from when he played lacrosse, but he wanted to smell as fresh as possible; he doesn’t think those gym clothes will ever smell fresh again after all that he put them through.

He pauses between putting his shirt to shoot another text back to Scott, Dude, I already hate this.

Scott replies with a gif of a crying baby and Stiles rolls his eyes. Scott follows it up a moment later with, You can still back dude. I won’t think less of you.

You’re so sweet.

Of course. Love you, bro.

Stiles sends back a video of him fanning himself and pretending to be teary eyed.

The door to the locker rooms slides open just as Stiles is pulling his shirt over his head and he freezes. There’s a guy standing in front of him. A very hot guy. A guy that Stiles still has his belly exposed to. His face turns a bright red as he struggles to pull the shirt down and hide his exposed torso.

The other guy looks at him, eyebrows raised so high Stiles is pretty sure they’re just going to keeping going up his face and take residence in his hairline. His grey eyes drag over Stiles’s body as if assessing him. And, if he wasn’t self-conscious before, he very will is now. He knows he’s not in the best shape ever, but he hasn’t really let himself go. But the way the guy looks at him makes Stiles think that he believes him to be the sloppiest guy he’s ever had the displeasure of looking at.

“You Stilinski?” The guy asks as he points a finger at Stiles, eyebrows still raised. He looks like he’s trying to smile at Stiles—be personable—but Stiles thinks he looks constipated instead.

Stiles nods fervently for a moment before speaking, “Yes,” he replies in a croaky tone. And what a time to finally go through puberty. “Well, Stiles, not Stilinski. That’s my dad’s name.” Stiles had really tried to resist saying that last part, he really had but it had come out against his wishes. He tried to play it off with a cool smile—it didn’t come across cool, he’s sure.

The guy seems to smile sincerely at that—though that may only be because he’s amused by the weak little thing in front of him.

A tsk is the only response Stiles gets before the guy says, “Cool,” and checks his watch. “We’ve got a few minutes before your actual appointment time, if you need more time to get ready? I’m Jackson, by the way.” The guy doesn’t really seem to want to give Stiles his name.

“Uh, yeah, yeah,” Stiles says back lamely, bringing his phone entirely too close to his face—so the guy in front of him—Jackson—can’t see what he’s texting Scott.

Scott, I have an emergency.

Do you need me to come get you?

No, thank you for offering, though.

No problem. But, uh, what’s the emergency, then?

My trainer is hot.

Oh. A pause as Scott types a message, stops, starts typing again (maybe deleting), and then typing again after a small pause before shooting back, extra motivation ;).

No, Stiles shoots back quickly, though he does laugh at the message. 

Jackson is standing across from Stiles, fiddling with his watch—a smart watch then, of course he had a smart watch. Should Stiles have a smart watch? For his heart rate and stuff? So he can keep track of it? What if this guy puts him through the ringer and he has a heart attack? What if the guy being so hot gives him a heart attack? What if—?

Dude? Scott sends, kind of giving Stiles the feeling that Scott is ready to get on his bike—his very dangerous bike that Stiles was—and still is—upset with him for getting.

He’s hot but I don’t think he likes me, Stiles sends.

lol

No, not lol. I—

A timer goes off somewhere. In front of him. It’s Jackson’s watch. Stiles is out of time, it’s time for his workout. Fuck.

“All right,” Jackson says, a ghost of a scowl on his face, “thought you were gonna spend that time doing something a little more…constructive but—“ Jackson shrugs. He looks disappointed, Stiles is losing him. Did he ever have him? Stiles’s own alarm goes off, he’d set it for a minute after his appointment start time—just to get the anxiety of I’m gonna be late pumping—even though he’d still managed to arrive 15 minutes early.

Stiles gives him a nervous smile before sliding his phone in his gym shorts, message unfinished and unsent. He grabs his water bottle from his duffle bag and then throws it into his locker-cubby-thing.

Jackson leads them back down corridor that Stiles and it feels like it takes a lot longer this time. Well, a large part of it is because Stiles has spent a majority of the time staring at his trainer’s butt. It’s a nice one, very tight, perky.

There’s something about this being a state of the art facility, something about its hope being to make the people of Beacon Hills more active. Jackson doesn’t really seem to believe that, or care about it. It seems like a spiel that he’s been forced to sell; something that Stiles is supposed to tell his friends so that they come and sign up. Scott might, actually. Scott was definitely more in shape than Stiles just because he seemed to genuinely enjoy light exercise. It had helped his asthma get a little more under control. 

And ever since Scott’d become an EMT, they hadn’t been able to spend much time together because Scott was technically always on call. Stiles technically was too. Even living together didn’t really make it all that much easier to see each other because one of them would come home exhausted. But the days that they were both off on were fantastic because they could just bro out on the couch. 

But they did sometimes meet on the odd call with Stiles being on the police force. Maybe not the best circumstances to hang out with your bro but they took what they could get.

Damn the McCall’s and their unrelenting need to be good contributors to the community—Stiles missed having his best friend around the beat in Smash more. But then maybe also damn the Stilinskis for doing too.

One more turn and Jackson and Stiles have made it to the room with all of the equipment. Stiles gulps. 

“And now that all of that is out of the way,” Jackson says as he turns towards Stiles, and Stiles has to quickly raise his head from staring at Jackson’s butt. “I can get to kicking your ass,” Jackson finishes with a cocky grin. Stiles may feel a twitch in his pants—he has been told he’s a glutton for particular kinds of punishments.

The first step is fine. It is yoga, Stiles can do yoga—not as well as he could in high school because he was convinced that he would be a better lacrosse player just off yoga alone. Well, that and the rigorous training that Coach Finstock put them through. Jackson actually seemed a little impressed with the way that Stiles is able to keep up and Stiles tries to give him his cockiest grin through the deep breathing and a small period of panting. Because, while he’s kind of up to snuff on yoga, the session is a lot longer than the stuff he would do at home.

Also, there’s a lot more stretching that Stiles used to do. Which, maybe that’s why Stiles wasn’t as kick ass at lacrosse, he wasn’t getting all of the stretches in. The stretches are a little more intense and deeper than the ones he’d done by himself. And boy, did Jackson want deep stretches.

A plus of this, however, was getting to see the lean musculature of Jackson ripple under his skin. The wide stances would make the already tight athletic pants that Jackson was wearing hug his legs that much more and Stiles could feel himself getting a little hard in his pants. But maybe the best part was when Jackson had Stiles hold a position—the downward dog—and had move behind him to fix his stance. Standing just behind Stiles and knocking the inside of Stile’s feet apart wider. And of course the hand ghosting up Stiles’s spine telling him to relax. And Stiles felt like he was going to cry. Or come his pants. Either one, both would be a welcome form of catharsis.

Stiles held the position for what felt like forever before Jackson patted his back and said for him to straighten up. Stiles…actually felt great. He felt relaxed and more at peace with his body than he’d felt in a long time. if this is what working out made him feel like, then he could get with this, definitely. Especially if Jackson was his trainer.

“Okay,” Jackson says clapping and pulling Stiles from his ego buzz, turning to look at Jackson. “Now for the actual workout.”

The what now?

“Oh, that wasn’t…the workout?” Stiles asks, voice squeaking a little. He knew it wasn’t, but some part of him had hoped that maybe their first session would just be yoga. But of course it wasn’t going to be that easy.

Jackson looks at Stiles a nice ‘are you serious?’ look before he bursts out into laughter. “No,” Jackson says, righting himself—looking a little embarrassed for losing his composure. “No,” he coughs, “there’s more. That was just to get you loose and ready to go. Do you want to take a break?” Jackson gives Stiles a considering look, and maybe there’s a little disappointment in his eyes, but Stiles can’t really be sure. “Or you could give up?” And then there’s a look of reproach on Jackson’s face and the words make Stiles’s blood boil a little. Dick.

“Uh,” Stiles thinks on it because while a break would be nice, that would also just give him more time to embarrass himself in front of Jackson in some spectacular way. It would also keep him here for longer than he’d originally planned. And giving up would feel a lot like losing and Stiles isn’t a very good loser.

Stiles shook his head ‘no’. Jackson seemed pleased at that and maybe Stiles felt a little bubble in his chest at that. Maybe Stiles felt a little proud of himself for being able to stick it out. 

“Okay, good,” Jackson gave Stiles a smile then, a very nice smile actually, and maybe Stiles swooned a little. Just a little. “So, I don’t think you’re that new to working out and exercise. All things considered you keep up pretty well, Stilinski.” Jackson gave an approving nod before moving over to adjust the weight on some machine that Stiles hadn’t seen in a long time. 

Coach hadn’t made them mess around with strength machines much—more focussed on honing their endurance. So, suicides until the team genuinely was ready to die. Or a hundred burpees. God, Stiles hated burpees. His entire body seemed to clench at just the thought of having to do a burpee right now. He hopes Jackson doesn’t have burpees on the docket because then he may actually throw in the towel.

Stiles noticed that he hadn’t really moved since Jackson had stepped away to adjust the weights on the machine—still standing on his yoga mat—lost in his little reverie. Jackson was looking at him with a look close to condescension but somehow not. Stiles wasn’t sure how the guy pulled it off. There was a constant aura around of him ‘I’m better than you’ and he seemed to be able to flex it on and off and switch up the intensity of it seemingly at will. Which…was stressful.

“Yeah, no,” Stiles took his time walking over to Jackson, dreading the continuation of the workout, “I was on the lacrosse team in high school. We didn’t do yoga, really, but we did exercise, obviously. I did yoga, thought.” Jackson nods along to Stiles’s talking, gesturing for him to take a seat on the machine. 

“Lacrosse,” Jackson says, sounding as thought he’s musing over the word—thinking about the legitimacy of the sport or— “I did lacrosse in high school—college, too.” he says abruptly, cutting off Stiles’s train of thought. Stiles could say he hadn’t been expecting that. Didn’t really know what other sport he would put Jackson in, though. He wasn’t exactly built like a football player—that Stiles knew anyway—there was a very high likelihood that he had no idea what the build of a football player actually was. 

Maybe swimming.

Stiles takes his seat at the machine and Jackson guides his hands to hold onto the grips of the machine. Stiles revels in the slight touch. The touch of the man that is single-handedly annihilating his will to live at the moment. Stiles was expecting callouses from the workout equipment to have roughed the insides of Jackson’s hands but the man seemed to have been able to keep them as soft as a baby’s bottom. Dick.

There’s a moment of instruction as Jackson tells Stiles how to manoeuvre his arms to work the machine—the machine fly, Jackson had called it. Stiles could vaguely remember using one in high school.

“How’d your team do?” Jackson asked after a moment, watching Stiles just to make sure his form stayed correct. Jackson takes a small sip from his water bottle and Stiles can’t help but to watch the bounce of his Adam’s apple.

“Uh, ya know,” Stiles supplied—unhelpfully. Jackson arched an eyebrow. “Our best,” Stiles finished, a bright blush on his cheeks; he could chalk it up to the work out but not everyone had a star team like Jackson’s high school probably did. Just looking at Jackson, Stiles is sure that he’s done the whole captain and nationals circuit at least once. “Scott, my best friend, and I didn’t really get to play much. Scott on account of his asthma and me on account of, uh, not being the best. No one on the team was that great, honestly.” Stiles was slightly out of breath, so his usual ramble wasn’t as quick or detailed. 

“But, we did have one really good year. Scott’s asthma kind of calmed down a little and we trained out asses off over the summer so that we could stop warming the bench so much. A kid named Liam came and he basically made up for all of the shortcomings of everyone else. Scott made captain, actually. Was so proud of my boy.” 

Stiles smiles big and wide, looking over at Jackson who returned his smile, though with a smaller one. Good enough. Jackson directed him over to another machine once he’d finished the reps that Jackson’d wanted him to do on the flying machine.

“But, sadly, that was also Junior year and the next year we couldn’t really focus on it as much as we wanted to. Scott wanted to focus on getting into a good school and I started looking into the police force.” Stiles finished, completely out of breath by the time he finished the number of reps Jackson had told him to do on all of the machines. 

Stiles sat and panted for a while before Jackson offered him the water bottle that Stiles had packed into his duffle earlier. Stiles took it and tilted it to Jackson in a non-verbal cheers before taking a quick swig of it.

“You actually did good today, Stilinski,” Jackson says, almost looking proud of Stiles.

“Stiles,” Stiles corrects, still out of breath.

Jackson nods, “Stilinski.”

Jackson grins.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://petershorcrux.tumblr.com)


End file.
